Emotionless
by whatcoloristhesky
Summary: What turn of events caused Dallas Winston's life to go downhill? WARNING: Dallas has a SLIGHT problem with cursing. CURRENTLY ON HIATUS.
1. December 1958

**A/N: This was in response to the December Rumble and I have decided to continue with it. :P **

**Disclaimer: Good Charlotte owns the title and S.E. Hinton owns the book. Thanks a bunch for the loans. :D**

* * *

**[December 1958]**

* * *

"I heard your dad got arrested last night," Bobby said, his tone condescending as he stood next to me on the corner.

"You're lying," I muttered. My stepmom, Mary, had told me last night that he just had to work late into the night. Bobby Smith needed to get his facts straight and keep his mouth shut. Just because he was in fifth grade didn't mean he knew everything.

"My pop told me last night. I wasn't supposed to say anythin', but I figured you might wanna know."

"Your dad's a liar too."

He shoved me hard in the shoulder. "Fine, don't believe me. But don't come crying to me when you find out the truth."

I shoved him back; he didn't know anything and I told him so.

He started to cross the street. "You're the one who doesn't know anything, Dallas. According to my pop, your dad is a sleaze ball," he called over his shoulder as he reached the other side.

No one insulted my dad. I ran after him, barely avoiding an oncoming car, and tackled him to the ground. "Take it back!" I ordered.

"No, get off of me," he whined. Tough fifth grader my fourth grade ass.

I stayed put. "Take it back," I growled. I was taking control of the situation just like my dad always told me to. We'd sit on the front stoop for hours on end, talking about everything. My dad knew everything; I wanted to be just like him, know everything and anything. He was calm, cool and collected and he knew how to get what he wanted. Yep, my dad was the best.

Then you get fifth grade know-it-alls, like Bobby Smith, who think they know it all just because they have a little bit more money than most of the kids at our school. I always wanted to tell Bobby to go to a prep school if he was so well off, but my dad said I shouldn't until he deserved to be told off.

I figured insultin' my dad was a good a time as any. "I said, 'take it back.' Your pop ain't here to rescue you, so say it now!"

He pushed me off. "I take it back," he mumbled.

I shoved his shoulder. "Don't ever insult my family again, you hear? I'm sick of you thinkin' you're better than me 'cause you live in a better neighborhood."

He brushed himself off. "I said, 'I take it back.' Lay off already Dallas."

I watched him turn away and gathered the books I had dropped. Dad was always on me about my homework. Said, "You got to learn it before you can know it. Do your homework." Besides, he was always bringing his work home with him, calling it adult homework. I figured if he does his homework, then I should too.

Bobby stopped at another corner a few yards away. I could barely hear him mutter the words, "Just wait until he gets home… He'll be sorry."

I narrowed my eyes and considered tackling him again, but thought better of it and walked on home. My dad wouldn't like it very much if he got a call from Bobby's pop. I shuddered; I wouldn't like it either.

* * *

I turned the corner to my street to see cop cars lining it. My heart started beating wildly in my chest. Bobby couldn't be right, he just couldn't…

All of a sudden, there were police officers eyeing me and walking towards me. I stopped a stoop from my own and looked around. They were leading Mary out of the house in handcuffs.

She looked over at me and our eyes met. She bit her bottom lip and muttered something to the officer leading her by the arm. He jerked his head at me to another officer and it started a chain reaction. Officers surrounded me, approaching me cautiously, as if I would bolt.

I started to take a few steps back. My dad always told me to keep a safe distance between strangers and myself. Cops might be safe, but at that moment, they were taking away my stepmom.

"Easy there, son. We're here to help." A hand pressed into my back, stopping me from going any further.

I dropped my books and looked at the officers surrounding me. "What's going on?"

"Your mother and father got into some trouble, son. We're going to go for a ride now, okay? Until someone can pick you up."

I shook my head in disbelief. Bobby couldn't be right; he just couldn't be. "No," I whispered and made a break for it. I needed to talk to Mary; she'd set them straight. My dad was my hero; he was a good man; he couldn't have gotten arrested.

"Grab him," someone shouted and before I could get away, a pair of strong hands had grabbed onto me. They forced me into the back seat of a patrol car and shut me in there. I tried with all my might to escape but I was locked in.

* * *

"Who's the kid?"

"Dallas Winston. We're waiting on Social Services to find a foster home for the poor kid."

I pulled my knees up to my chin and rested against the arm of the couch. Weren't the police supposed to help you? My dad always said to go to one of them if I ever was in trouble. Well, my dad was in trouble and all they did was lock him up. I don't count that as helping.

My dad couldn't of done anything wrong; he was James Winston, after all.

"When's he get shipped to state?" Stupid cops thought I couldn't hear them. My dad always told me that if they're stupid to let you hear 'em, stupid enough to get caught, then what's theirs is yours.

"Sometime tonight. Until then, he's in the cell down the hall. Can you believe the fucker tried to embezzle all that money? Took his wife with him, even."

Like I said, stupid cops. I quietly stood up and slipped to where the cells were. My dad sat alone in the first cell; Mary was nowhere to be seen. I pressed my face against the cool metal of the bars. "Dad?"

I didn't recognize the man that turned to look at me. This man wasn't my dad; my dad was calm, cool, and collected. This… this imposter was dirty and defeated, hard beyond caring. "Dallas? What're you doing here?"

I wanted to cry at the sight of him; what had happened to my hero? "Dad? How come you're in here?"

He turned away from me, and I felt my breathing get shallow and tears sting my eyes. This man wasn't my dad; he wasn't the man who I had always wanted to be. My dad would have looked me straight in the eye, no matter how bad the news was. "Quit your crying, boy. Winstons don't cry."

I didn't want to be like my dad anymore…

* * *

**Well...? :) or :( ?**


	2. April 1959

**Disclaimer: Good Charlotte owns the title and Hinton owns the book; I just borrow.**

**

* * *

**

**[April 1959]**

**

* * *

**

Four months had passed since I'd last seen my dad. I had waited until eleven that night for Social Services to find me a willing foster family. Apparently not a lot of people wanted to take in the son James Winston. "Tried to cheat half the city out of their money," I had heard an officer say.

They found one family though, I guess. The Timests were a middle-aged couple on the rough side of the city. We had never been rich, but we were comfortable to say the least. These people took in loads of kids all the time, of all ages, apparently, and lived in a small three-bedroom apartment on the tenth floor of a crummy building. There were two girls and two boys already there by the time they had taken me in. I was smack dab in the middle, younger than the two boys, Rick and Tommy; they were fifteen and sixteen, tough as nails, high in command in a gang, and most importantly, they told it to me straight.

The Timests were in it for the checks and my dad was a good-for-nothing asshole, they'd told me. I believed them about my foster parents; the officers had fed me better than they did most nights. I was in denial about my dad though. I didn't want to hate him, but he had just made me so angry. He had told me it was wrong to hate people, and I was trying my best, but glory, was it ever hard. He didn't even look at me that night. He didn't even look at me…

"Dallas! Get your butt out the door," Mrs. Timest called sharply from her position in the kitchen. I scrambled off my bed and shoved my feet into my shoes, grabbing the letter I had just written on my way out. It was our week, being the boys, to get the groceries.

Tommy and Rick were already out the door when I left and I had to run to catch up with them. "Hey Tommy, Rick," I called. "Either of you have money for a stamp that I could borrow?"

They stopped and looked at each other, waiting for me to reach them. "Whadda ya need a stamp for, kid?" Tommy asked, cocking an eyebrow in question.

"I wanna mail this," I replied and showed them the letter. I wanted my dad to know what I thought about him. He wasn't good like he made me think he was. He… he… I didn't know what he was…

Rick snatched it from my hands and read it. He sneered and shoved it at Tommy. "You deal with it," he said, his eyebrows raised. Tommy read it hesitantly and stared at Rick for a while.

Rick held his stare. They knew something I didn't and I hated it. Rick finally shrugged in response, telling him, "I got places to be, man."

Tommy rolled his eyes. "Fine, but meet us at Joe's in three hours. You got to carry stuff too, you know."

"Yeah, I know," he replied and headed across the street towards his girlfriend's apartment.

Tommy looked after him for a few minutes, not saying anything and leaving me in an uncomfortable silence. I shifted on my feet, fiddling with my shirttail, and waited for him to say something.

Finally Tommy turned and looked at me. "Dallas, we're not mailing this letter," he said calmly, and tore the letter into a million pieces.

"What the hell did you do that for? I woulda bought my own stamps!"

He slapped me upside the head, flipping his switch. I had seen him flip the switch once before; Rick was getting hassled on the way home from school and Tommy had beaten the other kid up so bad, I didn't even recognize him by the time Tommy had finished. The guy Rick had taken on didn't come out lookin' so good either.

"You listen to me, Dallas, and you listen good," he growled and crouched down to my level. "You sound like a spineless punk and I'll be damned if I got a foster brother who's a punk. Your dad isn't anything to be proud of. The only thing that came out good from his little plan was the fact that he put half the Knights in jail, right along with him. He gave us less to worry about; that's the only thing good. Your dad's a low life piece of shit, now get it through your head." He poked a finger at my chest and narrowed his eyes.

I punched him a good one across the face, sending him off balance, and stood my ground. "Take it back," I told him.

He shook his head, a glare in his eye, and rubbed his cheek, grabbing me roughly by the arm. "I oughtta teach you a lesson, you little punk." He started dragging me down the street, towards the bus stop. "You don't fucking believe me, kid? I'll fucking show you what a piece of shit he is."

I grabbed at his wrist, trying to free myself from his grip, but he wouldn't let up. He dragged me over to the bus stop and pushed me on the bus, leading me to a seat in the back.

"Where the hell are we goin'?"

Tommy rubbed his cheek absently. "You got quite a mouth and quite a punch, Dal."

"Where are we going, Tommy?"

"I already told you; I'm showin' you what a piece of shit is." He paused and leaned his head back, letting out a breath. "We're goin' ta see your dad in prison."

I crossed my arms over my chest and huffed, "I don't wanna see him."

He ruffled my hair; he had flipped back to the regular Tommy. "You forget I read what you wrote… Trust me, you want to see him."

I pushed his hand off of my head and leaned against the window, trying to ignore him.

"Dal?" I kept looking out the window. "Dally?" I grunted in acknowledgement. "Dallas?" He made me face him. "Look, I get it. My dad's in jail too. I thought the fucker was a good guy until 'e killed a guy. And even then, I tried to convince myself that it wasn't 'im. They got the wrong guy, I'd tell myself. I was older than you even, and I believed it."

"You don't believe that now do you?"

He ran a hand over his face. "Naw, kid, I know the truth now. I begged my old foster family to let me visit him and they let me. Gave me nice clothes and took me to see 'im. Now, I can't give you nice clothes, but I'm takin' you to see your old man. You got to see shit to believe it sometimes."

* * *

We stood down the street, looking up at the barbed wire fences that surrounded the prison. Tommy shoved his blade into my hand. "They won't check you. They shouldn't check me either, but I can't risk it with you in tow."

I flicked it open, running my fingers over the cool metal of the back of the blade. "You sure they're not gonna check me?" I asked, pocketing it.

"Naw, you ain't a criminal yet," he said, shoved his hands in his pockets and sauntered off towards the entrance.

I followed, and stuck my hands in my pockets, fingering the blade.

Tommy had to show the guards his fake ID to get us past the gates and into the prison. When we got inside the actual building Tommy showed them his ID again and we were buzzed into a larger room.

The guard didn't look any different from a police officer. "Who'd ya wanta see?"

Tommy nodded at me. "The kid wants to see his father."

The guard looked at Tommy like he was the scum of the Earth. "And that would be?"

"James Winston," he sneered. "And uh, I wanta see Brian McNeally."

"Stay here," the guard grunted and left the room, leaving us with the janitor.

I looked at Tommy. "You're not coming with me?"

He ruffled my hair and chuckled. "Naw, you do this by yerself, kid."

I opened my mouth to protest, but shut it upon seeing the guard come back in. "McNeally's waiting. Let's go," he barked, holding the door open for Tommy.

"See ya in a bit, kid," Tommy said and followed the guard down the hall. The door closed behind them and I sat on a bench, waiting for the guard to come get me.

I was starting to get nervous about seeing my dad. No one liked him anymore. I wasn't supposed to be mad at him; he was supposed to be there for me no matter what. But that night… He hadn't even looked at me…

The guard coughed from the doorway, a sneer placed on his face. I jumped up, my heart caught up in my throat. "Winston says he doesn't have a son," he grunted.

"He's lying! I'm his son! I'm his son…"

The guard stepped into the room and walked towards me. "Look kid,"—he grabbed the collar of my shirt—"I asked him three times. He doesn't have a son." He shoved me to the door we had walked in through. "Now sit down and wait for yer friend like a good little kid."

I grabbed the switchblade Tommy had given me from my pocket and flicked it out, holding it against his stomach. "He's lying; I'm telling you, he's lying," I growled, fighting back the tears.

"Put the blade down, kid, and I'll forget you even pulled it."

I stepped closer, pushing it into him. "No," I told him through gritted teeth.

His eyes flashed past mine for a split second before returning the scowl I was giving him. Before I could run, the door behind me opened and someone had tackled me to the ground and thrown the blade across the room.

The first guard was at the phone, tugging at the rip the blade had caused when I'd been knocked down. Metal slapped against my wrists and the guy who tackled me lifted me to my feet roughly. "You're in for it, kid. Oh, you're fucking in for it."

He dragged me through the door I hadn't been allowed past, down a few hallways and past a few rows of cells. The inmates yelled and cheered as we past, but I just shot them dirty looks. The only who didn't seem to react was a man of about thirty-five with white-blond hair and blue eyes—my father.

"I hate you," I spat at him as we passed, fighting the tears back. "I fuckin' hate you!"

* * *

**Reviews?**


	3. September 1960

**Disclaimer: Hinton owns Dallas.**

**

* * *

**

**September 1960**

The police and I were beginning to become buddies according to Tommy, and I for one, was liking it. Givin' my information after getting hauled in for fighting was a waste of my time. They didn't do anything but take our names down and confiscate our blades, anyway, and if they knew me already, then it was just one less thing I had to do.

This time, however, was one too many for the ol' NYPD and they threw me in. Wasn't the first time, and certainly wouldn't be the last, I figured.

"You ain't the Timests," I sneered from my cell. The ragged looking woman and her balding husband standing behind Officer Riley weren't the people I was expecting. Mrs. Timest was ragged looking, but she looked better than the one in front of my cell.

"Dallas, meet yer new family," Riley said, a sickly sarcastic smile on his greasy Irish face as he picked out the key to my cell. "These here folks are Mr. and Mrs. Stewart and you'll be livin' with'em from now on."

"What the hell happened to the Timests?"

"Boyo, you best be watchin' yer language," Riley warned and twisted the key in the lock, sliding open the door. "Mr. Stewart here'll explain it all to yeh."

I swung my legs off the bench and stood up. "Yeah?" I asked. "Well, gee, I just can't wait." That one earned me a smack from Riley's stick. Don't ask me what they're called; I don't give a shit.

"Let's go," Mr. Stewart said gruffly and grabbed me by the arm, pulling me out.

I pulled my arm out of his grip and straightened my jacket. "Ya ain't gotta drag me. 'S'not like I ain't comin'," I muttered, a scowl on my face.

He continued to walk out and down the street, his wife scurrying to keep up with him. I took my time; this scum wasn't going control me. I was Dallas fuckin' Winston and he better get used to it.

Their lack of a house made me chuckle as I walked in. I was used to livin' in the projects by now, but this was ridiculous. There were stains on the wall, stuffing was coming out of the couch in tufts, and I half expected to see those damn sewer rats crawling out of the broken cabinets.

"Your room is at the end of the hall, Dallas," Mrs. Stewart said as she made herself busy with tidying up the place.

"Yeah, yeah," I replied and stuck my hands in my pockets, making my way towards it.

Mr. Stewart grabbed my arm and pulled me back, shoving me hard against the wall. "Listen kid," he growled, "you're goin' to learn some respect around here." He slammed me against the wall again. "I don't know how it worked at your other foster family,"—slam—"but you're attitude ain't gonna cut it around here, you little piece of shit."

I kicked him and he let go in surprise. "Like your attitude's so much fuckin' better." I punched him, sending him stumbling back a few feet. "Fuck you, old man."

He straightened up, a glare in his eye. I glared right back and spit at him. "Oh, you're in for it, kid." He lunged at me and landed a punch across my face. I fought back, getting in my own share of punches.

"Michael! Stop it!" his wife shrieked as we pulled away from each other, panting.

"Great timing," I muttered and started walking away.

I didn't even see the two-by-four coming.

* * *

"What the hell happened to yer face, kid?"

I scowled. That fucker of a foster father nearly bashed my head in. "What? No 'where were you last night, Dallas?' You just like me for my looks, huh?"

Tommy grabbed at my face, looking at the mess of a welt that had become the left side of my face. "Damn kid, you get V'd into another gang without tellin' me?" I yanked out of his grip. "I heard you were in a fight, but I thought you could hold yer own. What the hell happened?"

"I did hold my own. Those Knights won't be able to see straight for a week."

"Well then care to tell me how in _hell_ you came out looking like this."

I spat to the side. "Michael Stewart."

Tommy casually pulled out two cigarettes and lit them, handing one to me. He took a drag and exhaled smoke, looking away before turning to me again. "_Who?_"

"My new foster dad," I sneered. "Hit me with a two-by-four as I walked away, the fucking coward."

He licked his lips. "You cry?"

"Fuck no." I raised an eyebrow at him as I took another drag. "Yer kiddin' me, right?"

He chuckled and shrugged, taking a drag. "Most 'leven year-olds cry when they get hit with planks o'wood."

I sneered and started to walk away. "Yeah, fuck you, Tommy." I didn't need this.

He laughed and grabbed my shoulder, turning me to face him again. "Dallas, quit bein' so surly all the time. You'll die 'fore you turn twenty and we could use you more than the others."

He had me now. "You sayin' I won't hafta bark out orders for the little shits?"

He chuckled. "Dallas, you're the same age as most of those little shits. Younger than some, too."

"Cut me in the hardcore, Tommy."

He stepped back and leaned against the wall. "You're cuttin' it awful close to bein' baby age… I don't know."

I glared. "Like I said, Tommy… Fuck you." I started to walk away again and flicked my cigarette into the streets. "I gotta bag me a new blade," I called over my shoulder. "Riley confiscated mine again."

"Hey," Tommy called.

I turned and started walking backwards. "Yeah?"

"Stop by later. I gotta talk to Rick and the girls were awful shook up that they took you away last night."

"I'll think about it." Tommy was too damn easy sometimes.

* * *

**FYI ON THE GANG SITUATION: Tommy asks if Dallas was "V'd" into another gang, meaning he wants to know if he was initiated into another gang. (Gangs often use violence as initiation, in case you weren't aware.) Also, Dallas wants to be "cut into the hardcore," meaning he wants to be of a higher rank. Due to his age, he's what one would call a baby (much to his disliking, and also, unfair to his skill level), and although he is apparently in charge of his "classification," he is not considered "hardcore" (meaning one of the leaders).**

**A/N (more specifically for iwalkinthelight): The two girls are not important to the story-line; they're merely background information. (To show the kind of living enviroment Dallas was placed into.) **

REVIEWS MAKE ME REALLY, _really,_ REALLY HAPPY. *grins widely*


End file.
